To Catch a Spy
by The Blue Raven
Summary: When a spy is suspected in the British Secret Service, an American relative of Rebecca and Phileas is called in to uncover the traitor.
1. Chapter 1

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To Catch a Spy

By: Blue

Summary: When a spy is suspected in the British Secret Service, a relative of Rebecca and Phileas is called in to uncover the traitor.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just enjoy getting inside their heads from time to time.

Author's Note: This was originally intended to be a series of 6 stories, started last year. I stopped after the 3rd when Brenna's future started to seem a little too much like our present. Now that enough time has passed for me to once again look at the story-arc subjectively, I am reposting the first 3 stories and will soon be starting on the remaining 3 (with a few adjustments to what I had originally planned in the interest of good taste and sensitivity). Please enjoy.

Feedback: Pretty please? Feed me, feed me!!!

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Chapter 1

Jules let himself into his garret without bothering to light a candle. After all, he knew his way around well enough and it was not as if there was much worth seeing anyway. Yawning, he started towards his bed, managing to avoid falling down the stairs as he might have done if he had had even one more drink before leaving the cafe. 

"Can you see in the dark, too?" an unfamiliar female voice inquired smoothly as he began undressing.

"Who's there?" Jules demanded, reaching into his pocket. "I have a gun."

"Bollux," the woman retorted. "Does he carry a gun?"

"No." This muffled voice was familiar to Jules.

"Fogg?" he asked, frowning.

A candle was quickly lit, and Jules saw that it was indeed Phileas Fogg standing in his room. His face was set in a blank expression, but his eyes betrayed either anger or sadness, and more likely both. Jules took Fogg in for only an instant before searching the room with his eyes for the source of the other voice. He saw no one, which was hardly surprising given the dim candle-light which was barely enough to illuminate Phileas's face while he held the candle.

"Who's with you?" Jules asked.

"Don't answer that, Fogg," the woman's voice said firmly. "I don't want him knowing my name yet."

Phileas nodded slowly and placed the candle on Verne's writing desk. "Come here, Verne," he said in an oddly stifled voice.

Jules shook his head, trying to look more confident than he felt. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Force him down if you have to," the woman commanded Phileas.

"I'd rather it not come to that, thank you," Phileas replied coldly. "Come _here_, Verne."

"If you scream, I shall be forced to knock you out," the woman informed him grimly from behind.

Jules spun to face her and Phileas seized the opportunity, catching his arms and holding him. "Just stay calm, Verne," Phileas hissed in his ear. To the woman, he added, "Hurry, would you?"

She shrugged and approached Jules. In the dim candle-light, he could not see much more than her outline. She was tall, taller than Fogg and she wore a cloak, pulled closely about her so that her body and face were both well-concealed. Only her eyes were immediately apparent. They narrowed slightly as she watched Jules struggle.

"You said he would not kick up a fuss, Fogg," the woman hissed at Phileas.

"Hey!" Jules snapped. "Just what is going on here?"

"This is taking too long!" Fogg hissed. "You're scaring him..."

"You're BOTH scaring me!" Jules replied firmly. "I want an answer." He swung his head around, trying to look Phileas in the eyes. "What is going on?" he repeated urgently. For a brief moment, he thought he saw regret in Phileas's steely eyes, but that could as easily have been a trick of the light, for Phileas only tightened his grip on Jules.

"Just try to relax," he muttered into the young man's ear, and there was no mistaking the pity and the shame in his voice.

Jules closed his eyes and relaxed into Phileas's grip, for no other reason than because he had little other choice. Whatever was going on, it might be best, and least painful, to simply go with it. And he still trusted Phileas Fogg, in spite of everything. Fogg would not let him be hurt.

"Why is he doing that?" the woman muttered, frowning at Jules. "Is this normal for him?"

"I believe he plans to... take it like a man," Phileas muttered softly.

"Well, get him down there. By the desk. I'll need light."

Jules opened his eyes slightly as Phileas pulled him towards the desk. "Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered desperately to Phileas.

"I don't think you'd understand," Phileas replied gently.

"No, he wouldn't," the woman snapped. "And what did I tell you about talking to him more than necessary?"

"I'm just trying to keep him from panicking."

"Let him panic. That isn't our concern..." The woman walked up to Jules and took his face in her hands. They were surprisingly smooth and smelled faintly of some Eastern incense. "Open your eyes." 

Jules slowly looked at her. She had thrown her hood back, perhaps trusting the darkness to keep her identity a secret. She held a candle in her left hand. "Rebecca?" he gasped.

She frowned faintly, and Jules saw that he had been mistaken. Indeed, he was not sure how he had made the mistake at all. Her hair and eyes were the right color, but her mouth and nose, the entire shape of her face indeed, were wrong. Besides which, she was at least ten years older than Rebecca Fogg, and easily a foot taller. "Hold still." She lifted the candle to eye-level. "Hold him still, Fogg..." 

Jules felt Phileas's grip on his arms tighten as the woman moved the candle closer to his face. Unable to move his body, he leaned his head back until it was resting against Phileas's chest. "Please," he muttered, horrified. "Tell me what you want..."

"Is he a coward, too, then, Fogg?"

"No." Phileas shook his head. "He only likes to know what is happening to him."

The woman nodded and pulled Verne's head back towards the candle, staring intently at his eyes. "When did you defect to the League of Darkness?" she asked mildly.

"Oh, God." Jules shook his head frantically. "No! I would never-"

"You let me judge that, boy." she advised.

Jules sucked in a deep breath. "Fogg! Tell her it's not true!"

"I wish I knew that, Verne," Phileas said softly. His voice was almost sad as he spoke. "Someone has been selling our secrets to the League for some time now, Verne."

"What does that have to do with me?" Jules demanded frantically. "Fogg! I hate them as much as you do!"

"If he is truly capable of that degree of hate, Fogg, he is more dangerous than you know," the woman said mildly.

"Who are you?" Jules repeated firmly. "Answer me!"

"In time, in time." The woman leaned forward until her nose almost brushed Verne's. She reached out with one hand and cupped his chin. "If you are as you say, I will leave you with an apology," she whispered, "but if you prove to be a traitor, than the God you pray to at night will not be strong enough to shield you from me." 

Jules let out a ragged gasp as she forced his head to the side and lifted the candle. It took him a moment to comprehend exactly what it was she was doing. She was checking his neck for something.

"Has he been tampered with, Blayne?" Phileas asked insistently.

"There is no evidence of a cortical-lobe stud," she muttered. "Stare at the flame, Jules Verne."

Jules sighed and looked at the flame of the candle, aware that tears were forming in his eyes. The woman held the candle several inches away and just stared. She pulled back his eyelids, then demanded that he open his mouth. She stared into that as well, before nodding to Phileas, who released Jules with a ragged sob.

"Sit on the bed," she ordered firmly. "It is almost over."

Jules hurried over to the bed, hazarding a quick glance at Fogg who, amazingly, had tears in his eyes. "Fogg!" he demanded. "What is going on? Who is this woman and what--"

"You are not to talk to him." The woman's voice, though mild, effectively stopped Jules in his tracks. "Only to me, Jules Verne."

Jules stared at her despite himself. "Who are you?"

"Me?" She looked almost surprised at the query. "I guess you could call me a kind of Inquisitor."

"Oh." Jules nodded bitterly. "And tell me, does the whole Auto-de-Fe mentality come easily, or do you have to work at it?"

Her face contorted into a scowl. "It comes quite easily, _boy_... Do not test the limits of my patience or you will find that I have none!"

"Verne," Phileas breathed warningly, and Jules recognized what he had failed to recognize before. Fear...

"Who are you?" Jules repeated more firmly. "What right do you have-"

"My right is the Divine Right!" she snapped, shoving him roughly onto his bed. "The power I serve is greater than any one man or woman yet alive!" 

She grabbed his arm before he could pull away and held it into a vice-like grip. He felt a sharp pain at the crook of his elbow and cried out, more from surprise than anything.

"Blayne!" Phileas almost shouted. "Stop! You're hurting him!"

"No." She stood up and stared at Phileas. "He is not hurt at all, are you, Jules Verne?"

Jules stood up and shook his head, feeling oddly dreamy. "No, I'm fine..."

"Do you like the way you feel, Jules?" she asked softly, eyeing him expectantly.

Jules nodded.

"Good. Lie down."

Jules put his head on his pillow and stretched out, feeling amazingly light and euphoric.

He heard Phileas mutter, "What did you do to him?"

"A method we have developed for questioning possible spies. He will not be able to deceive us."

"But you said he was untampered with." Fogg protested.

"And he was. But lack of a cortical-lobe stud does not always imply innocence from the League..."

"Then question him quickly. I grow tired of this evil."

"It is all evil, Fogg, where the League is concerned. The innocent suffer and the guilty are raised to glory."

"Enough rhetoric, Agent Blayne!" Fogg snapped. "Hurry up!"

Blayne stared at him through narrow eyes. "What does it feel like to hate so strongly?"

Phileas shook his head. "Like I could kill you happily, Agent Blayne."

She smiled. "Ah, honesty!" She leaned over Jules. "How do _you_ feel?"

"Nice," Jules muttered, smiling.

"Good, good. I've a few questions for you, and then you can sleep."

"Mmm," Jules muttered.

"How long have you been working for the League?"

"Don't work for them... Foggs... my friends... against them..."

Blayne nodded carefully. "How many times have you been face to face with Count Gregory?"

"Lots..."

Blayne stared at Phileas, who nodded mutely.

"Are the Foggs your friends?"

"Yes."

"Would you die for them?"

"Yes."

"Would you betray them?"

"No..."

"Would you join the League of Darkness?"

"No."

"Would you betray Rebecca Fogg?"

"No."

"Would you betray Phileas Fogg?"

"Never..."

"Do you have any enemies?"

"League..." 

Blayne nodded. "Are you dedicated to their eradication?"

"Just want to be... They won't let me... Alone... Just alone..."

Blayne nodded slowly and caressed the young man's face. "He's blameless, Fogg."

"But," Fogg shook his head. "They said..."

"Sleep, Jules Verne," she muttered without seeming to notice Phileas. She finally looked up at Phileas with a sigh. "They were obviously mistaken. Our Mole has covered his tracks so carefully that all evidence leads back to you, Rebecca, Chatsworth or Verne."

"Then he is innocent?" Phileas sighed in relief and collapsed into a chair.

She nodded. "You must love the boy very much, Fogg."

"You would not understand." He shook his head.

"You may return to your air-ship."

"You?"

"I will stay with him until he wakes."

Phileas shook his head firmly. "_You_ go back to the Aurora. Tell Rebecca and Passepartout the good news. I shall stay with Verne. He should not awaken to a strange face."

Blayne rose slowly and walked over to Phileas. "Now that you have seen the tactics we employ, I suppose you despise me?"

He took her hand and shook his head slowly. "I have seen the tactics that the League employs, and I despise _them_ for it. Your tactics are... necessary."

"Necessary?" She smiled sadly at him. "A necessary evil, perhaps?"

"Evil, perhaps, but necessary still, Blayne."

"Bless you, Fogg." She bent over and kissed his forehead before taking her leave of the garret.

Phileas sighed and pulled his chair next to Verne's bed. He would have much to account for come morning, but in the meantime, all he could do was sit by the young man and give him what comfort he could that way. Not that this was much. The young man would no doubt hate him when he remembered what he had done. And if Verne did not hate him, might he not hate himself that much more?

*****

Jules awoke with a start. He started again as Phileas reached out to still him. "Fogg?" He closed his eyes as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

Phileas sighed and tried to look at Jules, but found that he could not. His eyes were just too much for Phileas. Not that they were accusing, because they were not. They were confused, perhaps, but not accusing, and this was more than Phileas felt reasonably able to bear. He rose swiftly and threw the window open, leaning out and gulping in great breaths of air.

"Fogg?" Jules rose as quickly as he could, which was not quickly at all, and walked over to his friend. "What happened, Fogg?" He gently touched the older man's shoulder. 

Phileas shook his head, refusing to look at Jules. "I am so sorry, Verne..."

Jules stared at Phileas uncertainly. "What did I do to make you suspect me, Fogg?"

Phileas shook his head. "It wasn't anything _you_ did, Verne..." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry. It was me..."

"You? I don't understand." Jules frowned. "You would never..."

"No," Phileas shook his head. "I wasn't the spy, Verne. That's not what I meant. I... I..." He trailed off, unable to continue.

"Fogg?"

"I doubted you because I'm me." Phileas turned and stared at Jules, putting one hand gently on Verne's cheek in a gesture that, for a British gentleman, was unspeakably familiar. "You were the last man I would have believed it of, Verne, but everything seemed to point to you." Phileas closed his eyes so he would not have to look at Jules. "I believed you to be a spy because it is in my nature to push away those I care for the most..."

"Fogg, who was that woman?"

"Blayne? She's a Yankee spy." Phileas sighed. "She deals exclusively with the League of Darkness."

Jules nodded. "This was _her_ idea?"

Phileas nodded. "I should never have consented. I'm sorry, Verne."

Jules gave a little shake of the head. "It's okay, Fogg. Tell me what's happened?" He walked over to his writing desk and produced a bottle of scotch. He filled a water-glass almost to the brim and handed it to Phileas.

"Well, we've been having a terrible problem with bad intelligence and leaks for almost a year now." Phileas sighed, contemplating the glass in his hand.

"Which is just about how long I've been in your company?" Jules nodded his understanding. 

"Well, of course, none of us wanted to believe it, but once Blayne had interrogated myself and Passepartout and Rebecca and even Sir Jonathan..." Phileas took a long swallow of the scotch.

"She interrogated _Sir Jonathan_?" Jules stared. "How bad is this problem?"

"People are dying, Verne." Phileas sighed. "_Lots_ of people. It's only a matter of time before people start noticing... Needless to say, Sir Jonathan does _not_ want that on his record."

"But allowing himself to be interrogated?"

"My understanding is that he did not have much of a choice at all." Phileas closed his eyes. "If that's true, it means the order came from higher up, possibly from the Queen herself."

"Wow..." Jules stared at Phileas, suitably impressed by the enormity of the situation. 

"Of course, Blayne would willingly sacrifice what's left of the British intelligence community to strike a telling blow against the League of Darkness. Hell, I do believe that she would sacrifice the American intelligence community for such a chance..."

"She's that obsessed?"

"Obsession does not begin to describe it, Verne." He sighed and stared at his pocket-watch. "Will you join us for breakfast on the Aurora?"

"Will she be there?"

Phileas nodded. "I shouldn't be surprised if she were..." His voice and face were once more impassive. "Will you?"

Jules sighed and shrugged. "What writer have you ever known to refuse a free meal, Fogg?"

Phileas smiled that bitterly sarcastic grin of his. "I'm sure Brenna will be quite pleased to see you again."

"Brenna?" Jules repeated. It was a pretty name, and oddly fitting, for the woman who had broken into his garret and interrogated him using threats and drugs. He was not entirely surprised to find that he held no real grudge against her for what she had done. After all, how much less pleasant had his first encounter with Phileas Fogg been?


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2 

Brenna Blayne was far more willing than Jules to hold a grudge, and, as always when she was wrong, today's grudge was directed against herself. In the interest of punishing herself as much as possible, she had done something that most sane people would have thought twice about. She had challenged Rebecca Fogg to a fight. Rebecca had been more than willing to oblige a woman who she considered a friend first and then an associate. After all, who was she to deny a friend in need of a sound drubbing? 

Which turned out to be easier said than done, Rebecca quickly realized. Blayne might have beat out Phileas in the department of self-loathing, but there was no denying that she had quite a strong survival instinct. Having disarmed Rebecca twice and been disarmed herself at least three times, Blayne had finally made ready to defend herself with fists and feet. The two had called a brief truce to change out of their dresses and then had returned to the Aurora's drawing-room, ready to continue.

Passepartout had given up even the pretense of working, and was watching them nervously. He kept wincing and gasping and making horrified faces every time a blow was landed until both ladies were quite thoroughly distracted. 

"Jean, do you _mind_?" Blayne sighed finally.

"It looks so... ouchful," Passepartout protested. "And you is bleeding!"

Blayne frowned and touched her right eye. Sure enough, her hand came away bloody. Rebecca, bruised but unbloodied, approached with a handkerchief in hand. 

"Lord, I hadn't even noticed." She reached up and examined the cut under Blayne's eye.

"I'd say we can safely declare you the winner. Of this bout, at least." Blayne smiled. "Jean, I could really use a nice strong shot of whiskey."

"And some ice!" Rebecca called after him as he hurried off. 

"Ah, is this a bad time?" Phileas inquired smoothly as he entered. "I do _so_ hate to interrupt your girl-talk."

Rebecca made a disapproving face at him. "Honestly, Phileas."

Blayne smiled. "Good morning, Monsieur Verne. Are you well?"

Jules stopped short, taking in the two women. Each was clad in skin-tight leather, and both sported several bruises and scrapes. "Maybe this _is_ a bad time..." He began backing towards the door.

Phileas sighed as Verne headed towards the observation deck. "I'll get him."

"I think I'd better," Blayne ventured softly.

"But," Phileas protested.

Rebecca touched his shoulder. "Let her, Phileas."

"Please, Monsieur Verne," Blayne muttered, approaching him on the observation deck. "I can see that we got off on the wrong foot. I blame myself for this, and I beg your forgiveness."

Jules stared at her, perturbed. It took him a moment to realize that she was perfectly serious. "You could have just _asked_ me!" he snapped.

Blayne nodded. "I know that now. But if you _had_ been our spy, how could I have known that? What I did was wrong, Monsieur Verne, but it was necessary. She extended her hand and stared at him pleadingly. "Please..."

Jules hesitantly took her hand. "Call me Jules." It sounded absurd as he said it, but it was all he could think of.

"Brenna, if you care to, or Blayne at your pleasure." She squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry, Jules."

Jules stared at her, surprised to see that she was near tears. "Do you know," he asked softly, "what makes me the most angry?"

She shook her head, staring at him. Ashamed she may have been, but she looked him in the eyes, fully prepared to accept what chastisement he was willing to give. "What?"

"That the League of Darkness can cause such good people to do such evil things." Jules squeezed her hand gently.

Blayne stared at him with a tremulous smile. "They were right about you," she muttered quietly, touching his forehead. She turned quickly in time to see Passepartout walking up the stairs. "Yes, Jean?"

"Breakfast is being served."

"Thank you, Jean. After you, Jules."

As Jules started down the stairs, he heard Passepartout mutter to Blayne, "Perhaps you should clean up?"

"Thank you, Jean. Yes, I think I will. Please make my excuses to the others and let them know I'll be along shortly."

Jules took his seat at the table as Passepartout garbled out Blayne's message to Phileas and Rebecca. Rebecca had reverted to the model of a Victorian Lady at some point, and even Phileas looked more refreshed, although Jules knew full well that he must have been up all night.

Phileas nodded acceptance of Passepartout's message, then turned his attention to Jules. "Rebecca informs me that her services are required in London, Verne, post haste."

"Oh?" Jules looked up curiously. 

"Will you join us, Jules?" Rebecca asked softly.

Jules frowned. Something in her tone was subtly... off. "Sure..."

Rebecca smiled as though this news pleased her very much. "Splendid!" she said, her voice carrying much less emotion than her face.

"Well, then, that's settled." Fogg said, picking up his newspaper. "Isn't breakfast done _yet_?"

"You could always go help," Jules and Rebecca suggested at the same time. Rebecca covered her mouth with a napkin, but Jules did not bother to hide his laughter. 

Phileas stared at the two of them as if confirming once and for all that they were both quite mad. His eyes slid past them when Blayne entered the room. "Well, now, that _does_ make a nice change from how we normally see you!"

Jules and Rebecca turned to stare. Blayne was dressed in an off-the-shoulder gown of pale green silk, very simple, but all the more stunning for its simplicity. 

"I feel ridiculous." Blayne said flatly, taking her seat. "I mean... _look_ at me!"

"We're looking." Jules muttered appreciatively, then caught himself. He covered his mouth in embarrassment. 

This time, Rebecca did not even bother to hide her laughter. She shook her head and pointed helplessly at Jules.

"Thanks." Jules snapped.

Blayne was blushing and glaring at Rebecca. "That's it!" She rose swiftly. "I'm putting on pants!"

"No, don't!" Jules began, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Blayne sighed and closed her eyes.

"I believe, Blayne, that Verne was trying to compliment you," Phileas noted impassively.

"Jesus," she sighed, sitting back down. She shook her head in disgust.

"I'm sorry," Jules repeated.

"I know, son," she muttered, shaking her head. "It's not you. It's... it's me. Trying to play this part, like I'm some kind of Lady, or something..."

"Actually, you are pulling it off quite well," Phileas noted over his paper. "You've only sworn once all day. Of course, the day is young yet."

"Bite me," Blayne advised.

"Perhaps later," Phileas retorted, smiling at her over the paper and causing Rebecca to break into a short burst of laughter.

"Ah!" Blayne sighed, giving up.

"He does have a thing for distant cousins, our Phileas," Rebecca told Blayne in an aside.

"Don't help, Rebecca," Phileas suggested.

"Cousins?" Jules asked, staring at Blayne. "Are you related to the Foggs?"

She nodded slowly. "You noticed the resemblance yourself last night," she reminded him.

Jules nodded, remembering. "I'm sorry. I thought Fogg said you were--"

"American." Blayne nodded. "Ergo, I could not possible be a _respectable_ member of the Fogg clan."

"So she does her absolute best to be a disrespectable one," Phileas added, smiling.

"Oh, it gets better," Blayne said, smiling. "My grandfather was an Irish dirt-farmer. Isn't that right, Fogg?"

"Well, I'd assume so, given the pains you continuously take to remind me of the fact."

"No money at all, which means that Becky Fogg the elder must have married for love." She smiled wickedly. "Scandalous, wouldn't you agree?"

Rebecca smiled, then composed her face into a stern scowl. "Quite scandalous, to be sure. A Fogg, marrying for love? Wouldn't have that on this side of the family, would we, Phileas?"

Phileas gave Rebecca a look that suggested to her that she had perhaps carried things a bit to far. Breakfast was completed in uncomfortable silence, though by lunch all parties seemed to have forgotten that anything amiss had occurred.

*****

Finally accepting that he would not be able to sleep, Phileas rose and shrugged on a robe. He started for the observation deck, telling himself that he only wanted a breath of fresh air. He was not, however, entirely disappointed to see her standing there with her hands on the rail, drinking in the night air. 

"Rebecca?"

She turned around slowly, a regretful smile on her face. "Sorry, Fogg."

"Blayne... I'm sorry. From behind... In one of her robes..."

"Don't worry. It happens a lot for some reason." Blayne smiled at him. "I'm sorry all the same. Were you looking for her?"

Phileas shook his head. "Not at all. I just thought..."

"That she might be sleepless as well?" Blayne smiled and made a beckoning gesture. "Join me?"

"If I'm not intruding?"

She shook her head. "I enjoy your company, Fogg, even if my manner at times suggests otherwise."

He approached the railing and wrapped his hands around it, taking in the view. They were over the channel. "You never get tired of the view, do you?"

"How could anyone?" She smiled at him. "I suspect that it gives you more pleasure than you let on."

"Well, yes. Sometimes the little things," he hesitated.

"The small pleasures. I understand." She rested her hand on his. "We're not that different you and I. We want the same things. We just... go about it differently."

Phileas allowed himself a slight smile. "How do you know that we want the same things?"

"I know what I would want if I were you... Who I would want..."

Phileas glanced at her and was relieved to see that she was not teasing. "Perhaps... But..."

"I know." She nodded understanding. "What price would you pay?"

"What?" He stared at her. "She's not exactly the kind of woman--"

"Who can be bought. But when you want something bad enough, sometimes you're willing to pay any price. Sometimes you aren't so you lose out."

He stared at her, wondering if she could possibly _know_. "Do you believe in second chances, Blayne?"

She smiled sadly. "No."

"Oh..."

"I believe that every day brings with it a new chance. Not a chance to make right what you have done wrong, but a chance to try and start again. Not a second chance at the same opportunity, but a new chance at a different one."

"They seem to be the same thing," Phileas noted.

"Maybe they are," she murmured, leaning closer to him. "Maybe if you went and woke her up right now and you tried, you would succeed."

"Or maybe she would slam the door in my face and accuse me of being drunk..."

Blayne smiled. "But, the point is, you never know until you've tried. Life is one big 'maybe', Fogg. Even the past is uncertain. That's not in question. What's in question is whether or not you can live with yourself knowing that you gave up after one try."

"Have you ever taken that chance?"

"Once." She sighed deeply.

"He spurned you?"

"He said that it was the happiest day of his life. He was murdered shortly after by the League."

He stared at her in surprise and slid his arms around her. "I am so sorry..."

"I tried, Phileas, and I succeeded. And to the day I die I will remember that he died happy because of this, instead of dying alone."

"Will you ever marry?"

"I honestly don't know. There are days I think I almost could."

Phileas sighed deeply. If she had been shorter, he would have kissed the top of her head, but since she was several inches taller than he was, he settled for kissing her gently on the lips. He found himself wishing that Blayne had been a man, who he at least could have publicly called 'friend'. Friends they were, as aghast as most would have been by the concept, but both were careful not to let it show. The closest either came was to address each other, after the English fashion, by their family names rather than by their Christian ones. 

Phileas had once, many years ago, thought that he loved this woman. He had called her Brenna then. It had taken Blayne herself to point out the physical resemblance to Rebecca, something Phileas had completely failed to notice up to that point, and to gently suggest that this might be swaying a then younger Phileas Fogg's feelings. Blayne seemed to have an almost instinctive understanding of how it was between Rebecca and Phileas, and she was discreet enough to have never breathed a word to either of them. She accepted it as a fact that was there, with no real need to bring it up or analyze it.

She gently pushed out of his grip, accepting the kiss for the gesture it was. "You would have liked him, I think. He was not like us. He was... steady... responsible."

"Sounds a dreadful bore," Phileas noted gently.

"The worst kind. One would have mistaken him for any English gentleman. He lacked a certain degree of charm, though. He had your grim determinism. The man was a pit-bull. Not at all pleasant to look at, stubborn, gruff... loyal." She smiled again, this time to keep from shedding a tear.

"You should marry," Phileas suggested gently.

"Who? You?" She laughed in his face. "Jules, perhaps? Or Jean? Agent Rizzo?"

"Dear Lord, not that one..." Phileas shook his head over the mention of Blayne's partner, Agent Jack Rizzo. "There is something not quite right about that young man."

"So who does that leave, Phileas?" Blayne asked softly, staring at the countryside as it came into view. "I'm not wife material to any kind of man except you, Fogg, because no other man could accept what I do." She eyed him thoughtfully. "I expect Rebecca has the same problem."

"I wouldn't know. Her love-life is not exactly table-talk."

Blayne smiled at him. "No, I guess it wouldn't be." 

"It's late. You should try to get some sleep."

She nodded and turned to leave. "Do you know much Latin, Fogg?"

"A fair bit."

"Carpe diem, Fogg!" She leaned towards him, looking by her expression remarkably like Rebecca for a split-second. "Carpe diem before it slips away forever, Phileas."

Phileas watched her go thoughtfully, wondering why she had called him Phileas when for better than 10 years she had not called him anything other than Fogg. He shook his head and started back towards his room once he was sure that she was in her own. He hesitated at Rebecca's door for longer than was proper, not caring.

"Before it slips away forever, hmm?" 

He closed his eyes and put his hand on Rebecca's door. Unable to believe what he was doing, he slid the door open and moved silently into the room, closing the door behind him. Rebecca lay in her bed, breathing softly. Sleep was the only time she ever wore her hair down, and as his eyes acclimated to the darkness he saw that it was spread around her head like a halo. As though in a dream, he reached out and touched it, something he had never done before. He closed his eyes again, shaking, and turned to leave before he decided to live out any of his _other_ dreams about her.

Rebecca stirred. "Phileas? Is that you?" she asked groggily. "Are we in London already?"

He spun around guiltily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." he whispered, kneeling next to the bed. "I thought I heard something."

She sat up and lit a candle. "No, see. Just me."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have woken you."

"It's okay, Phileas." She stared at him for a moment, then reached out to touch his forehead. "Did you have a bad dream? You look flush."

"I must have." He nodded weakly. "I thought I heard something..."

Rebecca smiled gently. "Shall I heat a glass of milk for you?" she asked.

"No, that's really not necessary." Fogg turned and essentially fled the room. 

"Humph..." Rebecca stared after him in confusion before drifting back to sleep.

Phileas went to the Aurora's sitting room for a drink. He picked up a glass and unstopped a decanter.

"God hates a coward, Fogg," Blayne muttered from somewhere very close.

The glass flew from Phileas's hand at the sound of her voice. He caught it as quickly as he had lost hold of it, and poured himself a drink as though nothing had occurred to disturb him.

"Nice to see your reflexes in tact," she muttered.

Phileas looked around and saw her lying on her back only a few feet away. "Why are you on my floor?" he inquired.

"Your beds are too soft in the guest rooms."

"Ah." Phileas sat in an armchair and eyed her suspiciously over his glass. "Do you _plan_ these things, Blayne?"

"Which things, Fogg?" Blayne inquired idly, placing her hands behind her head.

"It's almost as though you take pleasure in putting me in bad situations and then being present to pick up the pieces."

"Really?" Blayne rolled onto her side and stared up at him. "Is that what you think? Fogg, old man, you put yourself into bad situations. When I'm present, I pick up the pieces. That's what friends do, they prop each other up."

"Prop..." Phileas narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "You are..."

"Strange?" Blayne nodded complacently. Apropos of nothing, she said, "You know, Fogg, when I said that you and I were not that different, it was really not that complimentary to either of us."

"Is that so?" Phileas rolled his eyes. "I suppose you feel we both have some bitter darkness hidden deep within our souls..."

"Deep?" She laughed and shook her head. "I'd say it's hovering just below the surface. Runs in the family you might say..."

"If it 'runs in the family' as you say," Phileas inquired smoothly, pouring himself another drink, "why are you and I the only two Foggs to have this... darkness." He smirked slightly.

"We aren't... It's just that most of the others don't live as long as we have..." This seemed to amuse her. "If you can call this living."

"I happen to enjoy my life-style very much, thank you."

"Ah, but that's just it. It's a life-style, not a life, Fogg. Neither of us are really _living_. We're just... waiting to die. And if, in the meantime, we can find one or two things to really get our pulse racing, so much the better..." She rose quickly and took the glass from his hand, swallowing it in one swift gulp. She returned the glass to his hand and started for the stairs.

"Wait," Phileas called after her, half-rising. "You can't honestly believe that?"

"Take a good look in the mirror some morning, Fogg. You may not like what you see..."

"What do you see?" Phileas demanded of her, catching her arm.

"An extremely attractive killer," she said flatly. "Driven by the need to revenge myself on the League and the world..." She twisted out of his grasp and walked up the stairs.

Phileas stared after her in awe. He covered his mouth with both hands, thinking, then shook his head. It was nonsense, utter and complete foolishness with no basis in reality. He poured himself another drink and stared defiantly up the stairs after Blayne. What did she know about anything, anyway? Not just a woman, but a _Yankee_! What could she possibly know about the way his mind worked?


	3. Chapter 3

****

Chapter 3

Breakfast the next morning was hurried because they were almost to London. Rebecca kept casting curious glances Phileas's way, and both he and Blayne were unusually silent, but beyond that it passed without much of note occurring.

Blayne, always a light and swift eater, finished first, and wandered off to visit Passepartout as the others finished their larger meals at a slightly slower pace.

She walked up silent behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder. "Jean."

"Ah, Miss Brenna!" Passepartout turned around, smiling brightly. His smile faded when he noted the expression on her face.

"We must talk, Jean."

"Of course, Miss Brenna..." He nodded swiftly.

"How long have we known each other, Jean?"

"Is being over ten years, I am thinking."

She nodded. "How long have you known your master?"

"For less than two, I am thinking. Is you still doubting him?"

She shook her head. "I understand Fogg's mind, Jean. There can be little doubt as to his allegiance."

"Little doubt is doubt still, Passepartout is thinking."

She shook her head. "I doubt myself, Jean."

"You is not thinking _you_ is spy, surely?"

She shook her head. "No, not exactly. But..." She sighed. "Why am I telling you this, Jean?"

"Because we is friends and friends be propping each other up. You need propping?"

"I need _something_!" she laughed, shaking her head. "Jean, someone around me is a traitor to everything I believe. Someone I have trusted. That puts those deaths on my head as much as on his."

"You is doing very best you can."

"But it is not enough! Some divine power has found me wanting." She shook her head. "I used to be able to sniff out traitors a mile off... Now I don't even know if I can trust my own friends."

"You must be trusting someone," Passepartout pointed out gently.

"You're right." She nodded. "May I trust you?"

He smiled and blushed. "I is being honored."

She leaned against the guard-rail. "Tell me about this Jules." she requested softly.

*****

"Will you be remaining in London?" Rebecca asked Blayne as they waited for Passepartout to set the Aurora down in Phileas's courtyard.

She looked around, surprised. "Um... For a time, yes. I may be needed elsewhere soon, but I should remain in London for at least a week."

Rebecca smiled. "Good. We have a lot to catch up on."

Blayne smiled faintly. "Rebecca, will you forgive me for doubting you?"

Rebecca smiled and squeezed her hand. "Brenna, we have been friends for a very long time now. How could I stay angry with you?"

Blayne smiled. "Thank you." 

"Sir Jonathan, on the other hand, is liable to stay angry with you for some time," Rebecca noted casually.

Blayne smirked. "Did you see the look on his face when I informed him that I planned on interrogating him first?"

Rebecca lost all semblance of seriousness and laughed loudly. "Oh... I thought he was going to order you arrested!"

"Diplomatic Immunity is a lovely thing." Blayne smiled grimly. "I thought you looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Immensely..." Blayne turned quickly as Jules and Phileas entered the room. "Gentlemen."

"What were you two laughing about?" Phileas inquired as casually as he could, afraid it might have been him.

"We were just discussing your favorite Head of the British Secret Service, Fogg." 

A shadow crossed Phileas's face momentarily. Then he smiled. "Ah, Sir Jonathan is it, then? Your butt of the week, it would seem, Blayne."

"Sir Jonathan is _always_ a butt, my dear Fogg," Blayne said, deadpan.

Jules and Phileas laughed, and even Rebecca cracked a smile at this comment. Blayne remained perfectly serious. 

"Oh, Brenna." Rebecca shook her head. "At least enjoy your own jokes..."

She shook her head. "I have a lot of work to do. Our traitor is still out there. The Inquisition must begin anew."

"Don't say that," Jules said. "It's a bad joke."

"It's no joke at all, Jules." Blayne stared thoughtfully at him. "Haven't you come to see that yet?"

There was a gentle jolt as the Aurora touched down, and Blayne turned for the door. 

"Will you join us for dinner?" Phileas called after her.

"I'll try." In her haste to leave, she did not even look over her shoulder as she spoke.

"Did I say something wrong?" Jules asked uncertainly.

"Not at all." Rebecca assured him. "Blayne has moods. You'll grow accustomed to them." She accepted Phileas's arm and started out.

"I hope not," Jules muttered, following.

*****

"No luck at all, then?" Jack Rizzo inquired brightly as Blayne entered the large common-room. His attention was riveted on the paddle-ball in his hand. "Hang on, I'm going for a record..."

Blayne leaned forward and caught the ball between her thumb and index-finger before it could hit the paddle again. "Riz..."

"Sorry, Bren." He shrugged and dropped the toy. "So, you struck out?"

"Batting zero as of last night. I was so desperate that I allowed Chatsworth to talk me into interrogating Jules bloody Verne."

"You still confident it's not Chatsworth?"

"Honestly?" She shook her head. "I don't trust the man as far as I can thrown him, but even under the drugs he denies involvement. I believe them where I don't believe him."

"So it's not him." He rose and poured her a drink. "It must be _someone_ in the upper echelons."

"Obviously, but I'd say our little stunt going over Chatsworth head lost us any credit we may have had with Her Majesty's Secret Service."

"There's still that Rebecca babe."

"She'd break your arm if she heard you talking about her like that."

"So long as that's all she breaks, Bren, I'll take my chances." He grinned at her.

"You know the rules about fraternization. It's a no-no. Especially when it's with one of my ancestors, thank you very much."

He grinned and shrugged. He changed the subject, "There's still Vicky."

She nodded. "I hesitate to burden her further. These are turbulent times, even without taking the League into account. Better to go to her with the news that it's been taken care of."

"Do you have a suspect, then?"

She shook her head. "No. I had Doctor Ross run the numbers, and he's as in the dark as I am. I'll tell you, Riz, and this stays between us, the computer was eighty-seven percent sure it was Phileas Fogg. Now, either it's time to recalibrate or we're out of leads."

"It's not the computers. I took the liberty of sending out to Cairo and got the exact same results. Fogg eighty-seven. Chatsworth eleven. Now, you eliminate Fogg from the equation and you come up with Chatsworth."

"Ninety-three." She nodded. "Damn, but it would be so _easy_ if it were him!"

"_If_..." He nodded and pulled out a notebook. "As it is, we remain in the dark. One-hundred."

She nodded bitterly. "I don't understand it, Riz."

He shrugged. "At least it's not Phileas or Rebecca."

She nodded slowly. "I'd almost rather it was. It could be so much cleaner."

"Killing potential ancestors, especially before they've had any children is _never_ clean, Bren. That's a death-sentence for you."

"I know." She nodded. "At least it wasn't _Verne_."

"You that attached to the boy, Bren?"

Blayne shrugged defensively. "Why shouldn't I be? I've been following him around since he was a kid."

"And then there's your fiancé. Michel, wasn't it?"

"He's dead. Let him rest."

"Hard to forget a guy who looks that much like one of your charges."

"You've been reading classified reports again, Riz." She shook her head. "Bad boy..."

"I saw his photograph. They're related, aren't they?"

She nodded. "Michel is... _was_ Verne's great-great grandson."

"That's got to hurt."

"At times." She shrugged. "It makes him easier to protect in ways."

"Not now that you know him. It won't be easy for you."

"It doesn't have to be. Michel was always very firm in pointing that out to me."

"Well good for him. It's true. Life sucks, if it's the 1300s or the 1800s or 1969 or 2037, it's all the same. War, hatred, poverty..."

"But I guess that's just the way the story goes..." Blayne sighed. "Pour me another drink, will you?"

"You drink too much."

"Alcohol is the least of my problems, Riz."

"So it is." He poured her another drink. "Speaking of which," he added casually, "another shipment of supplies came in from Cairo last night."

She tried not to look too interested. "Oh?" At his weary nod, she added, "Contraband?"

He nodded. "Quite a bit more than usual, actually."

She sighed. "What was it this time? Drugs? Technology? Print?"

He rolled something across the table to her. 

She caught it instinctively and looked down at it. It was a double-A battery. "Shit..."

He nodded. "Dozens of them. Plus a handful of D-cells and some 9-volts."

"Sweet mother... This is pretty incriminating stuff, Riz. Any idea on who it might belong to?"

"One of the new recruits would be my guess. The old-guard aren't exactly into technology the way the new ones still are."

She nodded. "Do we know what these were intended to feed?"

He shook his head. "There was no contraband technology in the shipment. Just the batteries. With your permission, I'll organize a search."

She nodded. "Do that. Start with my room, so everyone knows that it's base-wide."

He nodded. "Shall I destroy the batteries?"

"No..." She rose. "Give them over to Doctor Ross. He can use them, I'm sure."

"Where are you going, Bren?"

"For a walk. I'm taking dinner with the Foggs tonight, so leave a light on for me."

He nodded. "I'll get on that search."

"Rizzo." She turned around to face him. "Consider yourself under orders to ignore any printed contraband you find."

"Are you sure?"

"It's a comfort to these people, a link to their own time. These aren't drugs or technology, Riz. They aren't dangerous as long as they stay in the complex."

"I'll convey that to my men. Anything else?"

She considered. "Pull up Verne's complete dossier, if you would. I want it on my desk when I return from dinner."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll get Doctor Ross to do it."

"Thanks." She smiled at him. "Don't know what I'd do without you, Riz."

"No doubt go completely nuts, my dear." Rizzo laughed. Apropos of nothing, he added, "You know what I miss most about my time?"

"What?" She looked curiously at him. He seldom expressed any nostalgia at all for his own time.

"Free love." He shook his head solemnly. "Miss it horribly."

She laughed. "You need a vacation, Riz."

"Shall I draw up the paper-work for your signature?"

She laughed and nodded. "Do that. And have Ross see who else is due for a break. No use in overworking you guys when a vacation loses us nothing on this end in terms of man-power."

"What about you, ma'am. It's been six years since you've seen your own time."

She shook her head. "I'll let you know when I'm ready."

*****

Every visit to London was like the first for Jules, who almost invariably found some new wonder to explore, and even when he did not find any new wonders, he was never bored with the old ones. Today, for no reason he could have explained, he was wandering the warehouse district by the Thames. He was quite surprised to see Agent Blayne emerging from a large, seemingly abandoned warehouse. She was wearing riding pants instead of a dress. He decided that he liked her better that way.

"Hi!" he called, walking over to her.

She looked around in surprise, then noticed Jules. With a smile and a wave, she half-jogged over to him. "Jules Verne. What are you doing here?" she asked, staring.

"Taking a walk. What about you?"

"Attending to some personal affairs." She took his arm and steered him away from the warehouse. "You should be very careful, Jules about which neighborhoods you take your walks in. This one is not the best."

"I can take care of myself," Jules said, trying to sound imposing and failing miserably.

"Let me buy you lunch," Blayne suggested, smiling. "And I do believe that the museum has a new geology display."

"Really?" Verne's eyes shone. Geology was one of his favorite sciences.

"If you don't mind spending the afternoon with me..."

Jules hesitated for a split second. "Um..."

"I promise not to drug you again." She smiled. "I would like to get to know you under better terms, Jules. Please." She sighed and turned to face him. "Jules, you must understand that I am not an evil person. If I am forced by circumstance to do evil things, I am forced by the gods to pay for them a thousand-fold."

Jules shook his head. "No, I don't think you're evil. Not at all."

She smiled, looking relieved. "Let me treat you to lunch and the museum. Consider it a half-assed attempt at an apology."

Jules smiled and nodded. "I like you, Miss Blayne, I do. But... next time just ask."

She nodded. "I did a stupid thing, Jules, because I was angry and afraid."

"You don't strike me as the type who easily becomes afraid."

She smiled bitterly. "Then you know that these must be horrible times we are living in."

"No." Jules shook his head. "They are not horrible at all. The world has so much promise. There are so many opportunities open to us, and the human race stands on the threshold of a new era. Things are changing, Miss Blayne, and they are changing for the better."

She stared at him. He sounded just like Michel, full of hope and optimism and enthusiasm, and wanting everyone else to share those feelings with him. "Listen to you," she muttered gently, shaking her head.

"You disagree?" Jules asked, blushing. He was being a silly, childish fool again. Obviously a Lady like Blayne would have no use for such wide-eyed innocence.

She shook her head slightly. "It's not that I disagree. It's just that, for one moment, you reminded me of someone I once knew."

"You look sad when you say that," Jules said gently.

She tried to smile. "Thinking of him makes me sad, sometimes."

"Is he dead, then?" he asked gently, taking her arm.

She blinked rapidly, afraid she was about to start crying. Mercifully, she was able to control herself. "For these twelve years. We were to be married."

"I'm sorry," Jules murmured softly, not sure what else to say.

"Don't be. He died the way he lived. Fighting the League. He was happy in the end, and that's all that matters. Now, let us talk of other things." 

Jules nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"Shh. None of that now, Jules." She smiled and gave a little shake of the head. "It doesn't become you."

"I'm sorry," Jules repeated.

Blayne shook her head and took him by the arm. "Lunch first, do you think, or museum first?"

"Let's have lunch first. Passepartout always worries if you don't have a big dinner."

Blayne laughed. "Better make it a light lunch, then."

*****

"You don't suppose Verne was too disturbed by what happened?" Phileas asked Rebecca, putting down his paper.

"Phileas, for the tenth time, _no_." Rebecca stared at him. "What is wrong with you today?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Phileas." Rebecca looked around to make sure that Passepartout was occupied elsewhere, then walked over to Phileas. "You have been acting very oddly ever since Blayne questioned you. Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing, Rebecca."

She shook her head. "Don't do this, Phileas."

"Do what?" he asked, trying to look innocent.

Rebecca decided to try a different tack. "Phileas, what were you doing in my room last night?"

"I told you, I thought I heard something!" he snapped, jumping to his feet. "Why can't you accept that?"

"Phileas!" Rebecca shouted. "This is not _just_ about last night and you know it!"

Passepartout, who had been about to enter with a tray of tea, decided that this service could wait. He carefully closed the door and returned to the kitchen. He knew better than entering a room when Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg were gearing up for one of their shouting-matches. Things were liable to start getting thrown any second now.

"What is it about then, Rebecca?" Phileas demanded. "Because you refuse to be more specific than to say that I've been acting oddly!"

"_Aghh_!" Rebecca threw her hands up in disgust. "Phileas, you know I'm right. Stop being defensive and let me _help_ you!"

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. _This is Rebecca, Fogg. Why are you acting like this towards Rebecca?_ He closed his eyes for a moment, then approached her. He took hold of her arms just above the elbow. "Have you ever met a person and seen in them everything you hate in yourself?" he asked quietly.

She stared in shock. "You really feel that way about her?"

He shook his head. "I like her; she's my friend. But that doesn't change the fact that I see these things in her..." He sighed. "And she is so ruthless in pointed them out to me."

Rebecca sighed and quickly pulled him into an embrace. "Phileas, you can not keep doing this to yourself," she murmured, holding him close.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca..."

"You're afraid Jules will see the same things in you that you see in her?"

He nodded. "I sometimes feel like I have to conceal so much of who I really am..."

"Not for me, you don't. And not for Jules, and not for Passepartout or Blayne. We all love you, Phileas, no matter what."

He nodded slowly. "Thank you, Rebecca." He kissed her forehead. "What would I do without you?"

Rebecca opened her mouth to reply when the door to the sitting-room swung open. She pulled away from Phileas, who also pulled away from her. Jules walked in with his back to them and held the door opened.

"Jules, why are you walking backwards?" Rebecca asked curiously, staring at him.

"Shh..." Jules held up a hand for silence. His attention was focused on something outside, in the front hallway.

Rebecca and Phileas stared, wondering what was going on. Blayne soon 'walked' into the room on her hands, her feet sticking straight up in the air.

"I'm sorry," Phileas said, "did my house become a circus whilst I wasn't paying attention?"

Blayne looked up at him. "Damn you, Fogg, I lost count."

"Two more steps." Jules dutifully supplied.

"Thank you." Blayne took three more 'steps' forward, then in one fluid gesture rolled onto her feet. "Glad I wore pants today. Told you I could do it, Jules."

Jules shook his head. "Amazing..." He turned to Phileas and Rebecca. "She just walked over five-hundred yards on her hands. Not to mention up your front stairs."

Blayne rubbed her hands on her pants. "And let me share with you that London streets are quite the filthiest I've ever seen. I'm going to go wash." She breezed out of the room.

"But why?" Phileas called after her.

"To prove that I could!" came the reply.

Phileas shook his head. "How much did you lose, Verne?"

Jules blushed. "How did you know we had a bet?"

"Well, she _is_ a Fogg..." Phileas smiled impassively. "How much?"

"She says she doesn't usually play for money. I owe her a favor."

Phileas nodded. "Ah, yes, those favors..." He shook his head. "A year's salary might have been a less painful price."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jules demanded.

"I went with her to your garret the other night, among other reasons, because I owed her a favor."

Jules frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. "I see."

"Talking about me?" Blayne asked, leaning into the room. "Ah, you're all frowning. _must_ be about me. I'm going to go change into something more appropriate. Rebecca, could you..."

"Of course, Brenna." Rebecca nodded and followed her out.

"What's that all about?" Jules asked Fogg.

"Ah, well, I gather that where Blayne comes from corsets are not quite as popular as they are here. Consequently, she can't get into one by herself."

"Really?" Jules blinked. "What does she do when there are no women about?"

Phileas smiled. "Ah, then she asks the nearest male. She's really quite shameless..."

"You?" Jules grinned at Phileas who was trying desperately to remain impassive. "Fogg, you devil!"


	4. Chapter 4

****

Chapter 4

"Ah, I _hate_ these things!" Blayne grunted as Rebecca pulled the laces tight.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Rebecca suggested, tugging.

"At least it's bullet-proof," Blayne laughed. "Though how you wear one of these every day..."

"Price of beauty."

"Please!" Blayne snorted. "Really, Rebecca, what's your secret?"

"I wear one several sizes too large," Rebecca admitted, grinning.

"Ahhh!" Blayne grunted as Rebecca gave one final jerk on the laces. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Rebecca sat on the bed as Blayne continued dressing. "That was a neat trick today."

"The walking on my hands? I used to do that when I was a kid. Surprised I still can, actually. Must be all the yoga." Blayne dressed in silence for a few minutes. As she was brushing her hair, she asked, "How is Fogg holding up?"

"Hmm?"

"Come, Rebecca. I'd be a fool not to notice that my visits disturb him. More."

Rebecca frowned. "You know how it is..."

She nodded. "Doesn't keep me from worrying. Really, Rebecca, _is_ he okay?"

"He will be, I think."

"Man needs something, Rebecca."

Rebecca sighed. "I know. I just wish I knew _what_."

"A reason to live." Blayne considered herself in the mirror for a few minutes. 

"He said a funny thing today, Brenna. I'm hoping you can shed some light on it."

"I can try."

"He said..." Rebecca blushed. "He said that he sees, in you, everything he hates about himself."

Blayne stared at Rebecca, smiling. "He said _that_?"

Rebecca nodded. "I can't understand what he means by it, though."

"Ah, Rebecca, surely you've noticed how alike he and I are?"

Rebecca started to shake her head. "You really aren't... Ah..." 

"Yes. We both gamble too much, drink too much, use drugs too much, do stupid things because they might be exciting. We're both depressed, both haunted, both angry, afraid, waiting..."

"My Lord. When you put it like that, it's a wonder you aren't directly related."

"Closer than you think, maybe, Rebecca." Blayne walked over to her and took her hand. "Do me a favor, Rebecca."

"Yes?"

"Take care of him. Give him that reason he's looking for."

Rebecca nodded uncertainly. "Of course."

"Thanks, love. You're the only good thing that ever happened to this family. You know that?"

Rebecca shook her head uncertainly. "I don't--"

"No, of course not... I'm sorry, Rebecca. It was a silly thing to say really, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. Let's go before the others come looking for us."

*****

As Passepartout served dinner, the four sat in uncomfortable silence. It was Phileas who spoke first. "Blayne?" As Passepartout turned to leave, he added, "You can stay. You might wish to hear what she has to say as well. In fact, set a place for yourself and join us."

Jules stared at what he considered a highly uncharacteristic action on Phileas's part. Since no one else acted surprised, he supposed that he must have been mistaken.

Once Passepartout had settled into his hastily added place, Blayne took a very deep breath and pushed her plate back. She picked up her wine-glass and twirled it in her hand as she spoke. "You all know what brings me to you this time, yes? A Mole within the structure of Her Majesty's Secret Service. I was invited, though, which I'm not sure you knew."

"Invited by whom?" Jules asked curiously. He felt his face color as Rebecca and Phileas stared at him.

"It's a valid question," Blayne informed them. "And not one he had any reason to suspect that I am forbidden from answering. Jules, be content to know that it was someone very important. Nothing else matters. I was invited to locate this Mole and deal with him as I saw fit. Research indicated that this individual was someone very high up in the hierarchy, or else very close to someone very high. Initial suspicions focused on Phileas Fogg and on Sir Jonathan Chatsworth as the two most likely suspects. Failing them, Rebecca Fogg was considered. Then the valet of Phileas Fogg and the valet and assorted other servants of Sir Jonathan."

"And then on me?" 

She looked at Jules thoughtfully. "And then on you. Having eliminated those close enough to Chatsworth and the Foggs to reasonably be able to perpetrate these crimes, we are now back where we started."

"Which is to say you know nothing," Phileas murmured thoughtfully.

She nodded slowly. "We know more than we did. I can confidently say that it was not one of the four of you, or Sir Jonathan, or any of his household staff."

"Who does that leave?" Jules asked.

"An Agent in the British Secret Service, or perhaps a clerk or secretary. One who works closely with Sir Jonathan."

"Why not one who works close to Rebecca?" Jules asked.

"You were right, Fogg. He's a smart one." She turned to Rebecca. "Becky, my dear, what is the first rule of intelligence work?"

"Never trust anyone with all the facts." Rebecca said quickly. "Not your friends, not your family, not your servants, not your own partner."

Blayne nodded. "_That_ is why, Jules."

"Sir Jonathan has not learned this rule yet," Phileas noted idly. "He is proud enough of his accomplishments and plans to be willing to brag about them."

"This is a readily exploitable flaw," Blayne said, nodding. "He's an idiot, and those are always useful to the opposition."

"This idiot you're talking about is my boss," Rebecca reminded her, not seeming dreadfully offended on his behalf.

Blayne smirked. "Indeed? How many Agents would you estimate work closely with him? How many would he trust with sensitive information?"

Rebecca considered this for a moment. "Less than a dozen. It would not be difficult to isolate our Mole from among these."

"Always assuming one of these Agents _is_ our Mole." Phileas added.

Blayne nodded. "Which is assuming an awful lot. But it is a reasonable supposition. The Mole is not a member of the upper echelon, thus he must be getting his information from a leak. If Sir Jonathan is our leak..."

"Then you were right all along." Fogg smiled grimly at her. "Which must be a source of enormous comfort to you..."

"Indeed so." She sipped at her wine, smiling enigmatically. "Certainly it must be gratifying to the researchers who informed me that the leak must spring from either you or Sir Jonathan."

Phileas stared thoughtfully at her. "How do you know that this 'leak' as you call it does not come from me?"

"Because I've gotten drunk with you, and you aren't a talker. Sir Jonathan is not only a talker, he is also an idiot." She fell silent as though this quite settled matters.

Passepartout jumped to his feet at the faint sound of knocking on the front door. Without a word, he rushed to answer it.

"Where does this leave us, Blayne?" Rebecca asked gently.

"With a strong list of suspects and minimal research required. Chatsworth has an inner core of trusted favorites, this is common knowledge."

"And you're certain it must be one of them?" Rebecca asked.

"I am hopeful." Blayne sighed and emptied her wine-glass. 

"Allow me." Phileas quickly refilled her drink. "I'd say it's a strong possibility. It hadn't occurred to me that our Mole might be working from second-hand knowledge."

"Well, we had better hope--" Blayne trailed off as Passepartout reentered the room.

"Miss Brenna, is man at door for you. Says name is Ritz..."

Blayne sighed. "Riz." She rose swiftly, draining her glass. "Gentlemen, Rebecca, it seems I must now bid you good evening." She bowed and swept out of the room. "This had better be good, Rizzo," she announced grimly as she entered the front hall.

"Who's the frog with the funny idiom?"

"Jean Passepartout."

"Fogg's pet genius?"

Blayne nodded. "What is it, Riz?"

"A telegram just arrived for you from Alexandria." He handed her the envelope.

She quickly opened it and read aloud. "Report received, proceed as you think best." She crushed the piece of paper in her hand. "Typical."

"Is all being well?" Passepartout inquired, peering into the front hall.

"Just fine, Jean." Blayne assured him. "Anything else, Riz?"

"Finished the search you requested." He stared significantly at her.

"I must be going now, Jean. Convey my apologies and regards to the others." She followed Rizzo into the street. "Well?"

"Well, I have no idea _what_ to make of half of the things we confiscated..."

"Damn." 

They walked in silence until they reached the warehouse that was built over their headquarters. They entered silently, gave the password to the guards concealed in the shadows, then descended the stairs. Blayne followed Rizzo into a locked conference room. A number of items were scattered on the table that would have mystified the average scientist of the time. Blayne immediately recognized all of them.

She picked up a small gray plastic item. "Game boy."

"Beg your pardon?" 

"It's a video game. Um, you play games on it." She gestured to the handful of cartridges. "These are the games. Burn them and discipline the owner. Dock him a quarter's pay as well."

"Yes ma'am." Rizzo picked up a notebook and began itemizing the objects and the penalties to their owners. "This?"

"Pocket organizer. Send it and the owner to Alexandria for discipline."

"Yes ma'am. And this one? The same?"

"Pocket translator. Give it over to Doctor Ross and disqualify the owner from further service."

He raised an eyebrow. "Harsh."

"Necessary. You use this to facilitate conversation, Riz. _During_ conversation..."

"I see. And this thing?"

"A book light. Destroy it and put the owner on probation."

"Done." He nodded. "We also found a number of banned pharmaceuticals."

"Show me." Rizzo handed her a number of bottles and baggies full of pills. "Aspirin. Send it to the dispensary, put the owner on probation and tell him next time to use the damned willow salic. Codeine. Send it and the owner to the dispensary. Belay discipline pending their eval and recommendation."

"Done. This?"

"Shit..." She held the baggie up to the light. "Yeah..."

"Ma'am?"

"Crystal meth. Destroy it, disqualify the owner from further service. Six months in the Alexandria brig."

"Damn. What the hell? Why would anyone..." 

"In an era where you can get heroine legally, no less..." Blayne shook her head and picked up a bottle. "Benzodiazapines. Send it to the dispensary, have the owner undergo a psych eval."

"Yes ma'am. We also found a substantial amount of heroine and morphine. Not contraband in this era, so we didn't confiscate it..."

"And rightly so. Keep an eye on those Agents, though. These things have a way of spinning out of control."

"Understood." He hesitated. "I'm sorry I interrupted dinner. God knows you could use an evening off."

"Think nothing of it. We were discussing business." 

"Damn, woman, you're going to work yourself to death."

"Unlike you?"

"Hey! I'm actually scheduled for three weeks."

"When?" 

"Tonight, actually. I'll be back by morning, of course."

"Where are you going?"

"Woodstock." He grinned at her. "I'm still pissed about missing it the first time, damned cheap German cars... Guess I couldn't convince you to join me?"

She smiled and shook her head. "As much as I might want to, I really can't right now. Maybe after this nonsense with the British settles down."

"Things are _never_ calm on the British front, Bren."

She smiled bitterly. "Have we heard back from the Knights Templar yet?"

"No. Soon, I'm sure."

"They should be more considerate after all we've done for them..."

"Forget them." He muttered. "Let's talk about you."

"Let's not, Riz. My psyche is enough to scare the shrinks around here. You couldn't handle it."

He folded his arms over his chest. "Try me."

"Oh, it's this nonsense with the Mole. It's just all getting a bit overwhelming, I guess. Would you believe that I had actually started to suspect Fogg? Can you imagine that? Phileas Fogg, a traitor?"

"Or Rebecca Fogg for that matter."

"Or Jules Verne?" She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I swore to _protect_ him! My life for his if that's what it came down to, and I suspected him and threatened him and drugged him and questioned him like a common _criminal_!" she shouted.

"Hush," Rizzo rose and wrapped his arms around her.

"_What am I doing_?" she shrieked at him, pulling away. "Look at me!" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I am blind! I don't know what I am doing any more..."

"You are doing fine. You hit a roadblock. First in twelve years. I'd say that's still a pretty solid record."

"But something's missing now. I don't feel confident like I once did. That's bound to lead to mistakes."

"Bullshit." Rizzo shook his head and rocked her. "Nothing's changed except up here." He touched her forehead and smiled down at her. Then he placed his hand firmly over her heart. "_This_ is the still same..."

She shook her head. "Riz..."

"It is. And that's what's always led you right in the past. You have a real gift for this, and you know it. Once you've caught the bad guy, you'll feel more yourself again." He pulled her close and stood there rocking her.

"Sing me a song." Blayne murmured into his chest.

Most would have chosen at a moment like this a tender song, something gentle or comforting. Rizzo remained true to form.

"So I'd like to know where, you got the notion.  
Said I'd like to know where, you got the notion.  
To rock the boat. Don't rock the boat baby!   
To rock the boat. Don't tip the boat over!  
To rock the boat. Don't rock the boat baby!  
Don't rock the boat..."

As he sang, he danced her around the room, smiling and laughing.

"Thank you..." Blayne laughed when he finally stopped and allowed her to do so as well. "I needed that."

"I thought you might. If you need anything at all..."

"I think I can wait until noon tomorrow to have another crisis of faith, Riz. Enjoy Woodstock."

"Will do." Rizzo smiled and bowed before taking his leave. As he departed, he called, "Sail on, Silver Girl!"

Blayne smiled at this. "Thanks, Riz! Have fun! Bring me back a Grateful Dead T-Shirt!"

"Wish I could!" he called over his shoulder. "Peace!"

"At least get me Simon and Garfunkle's autographs!"

"Cretin! They didn't play Woodstock!"

"Bummer!" Blayne sank into a chair, resting her chin on her knees. She did not even notice when one of Rizzo's people came in to collect the contraband material and the notebook.

*****

"She makes a valid point, Phileas." Rebecca pointed out, pacing the sitting room. 

"Oh, do stop that nonsense." Phileas sighed at her. "I _know_ she has a valid point! I'm not a complete fool."

"Then what is your problem?"

He stared at her. It was not as if he could _tell_ her what his problem was, since it happened to be a problem with her. She had that look in her eyes, again. The one she got before doing something utterly suicidal.

"I'm just tired, I guess." Phileas lied.

"Oh." Rebecca smiled and walked over to him. "Maybe you should lie down. You have not been sleeping well lately, I've noticed."

"Oh?" Phileas smiled up at her, an odd grin on his face. "Have you now?"

Rebecca smiled back. "As a matter of fact, yes, I have."

"Interesting..." He took her hands in his. "Because I have noticed that _you_ have not been sleeping well either."

"So, for a change, only Jules is sleeping well?"

"It would appear that way. Of course, I wouldn't put it past Blayne to be drugging him." Phileas smiled at her and rose. "So, what shall we do about our inability to sleep? Shall we have a walk?"

Rebecca smiled and looked ready to say yes, but she suddenly shook her head. "Oh! I have it!"

Phileas winced. That look in her eyes had crystallized. There was no turning back as far as she was concerned. "You have what, exactly?" he asked warily.

"A plan."

He shook his head. "Now, Rebecca..."

"You haven't even heard it yet, Phileas, so don't object."

"Well, then, tell me your plan so that I _may_ object..."

"Phileas..." Rebecca shook her head. "It happens to be a very good plan."

"I'm sure it is, which is what worries me, Rebecca." Phileas sighed and poured himself a tall drink.

"Phileas, it's really very simple, and not at all dangerous."

"Less dangerous, than, say, dropping yourself over a waterfall in a barrel?" Phileas stared at her, frowning.

"Substantially less dangerous, as a matter of fact. I know a way to get the Mole to reveal himself so that I may keep a close eye on him."

"By exposing yourself?"

"Or by seeming to, Phileas. I'm no fool, you know, and I do enjoy life too much to put myself needlessly in harm's way." Rebecca smiled to soften the impact of this jibe. "Honestly, though, Phileas..."

"It's dangerous, Rebecca," Phileas announced flatly. "And I..."

"What? Forbid me?"

"Strongly object," Phileas said softly. "And... want you to know how much I worry about you..."

Rebecca's face softened. "Oh, Phileas." She wrapped her arms around him. "I know you worry about me, but I have a job and a duty, and those things have to come first. _if_ this were dangerous, which it is _not_."

Phileas sighed and looked down at her. "I suppose further arguing this point would be quite useless?"

Rebecca nodded and smiled up at him. "Quite useless. Besides, I plan on being fully backed up at all times. And then, there is the reputation that my undergarments are getting..."

"I beg your pardon!" Phileas gasped, shocked.

"Bullet-proof, Phileas." Rebecca smiled up at him. "Remember? The oddest birthday present I'd ever received, and they have proved infinitely useful."

"Always assuming they aim for your stomach or low chest."

Rebecca smiled at him. "My plan is _not_ dangerous, Phileas. I will wear the bullet-proof corset to make you happy, but it is really not necessary..."

Phileas sighed and stared at her. "Promise me this isn't dangerous, Rebecca. Swear it to me."

Rebecca blinked and did something that she rarely did. She outright lied to Phileas. "It is perfectly safe, Phileas. I swear." She idly wondered if she could get to confession before work tomorrow.

Phileas sighed. "Thank you, Rebecca. Can I offer you a drink? Tea?"

She shook her head. "It's late. I should be going to bed now."

Phileas wanted to protest, but she was right. It _was_ late. "Sleep well, Rebecca. Shall I have Passepartout bring up something to help you sleep?"

"Um, please. Thank you, Phileas."

He nodded. "Sleep well." He stood in the center of the room, watching her go, then he went to find Passepartout. He nearly bumped into the valet as he walked into the sitting room. "Ah, there you are. Kindly bring Rebecca something to help her sleep." 

"Will Master be requiring such a drink as this also?"

He shook his head. "I think not, no. I do believe I will have a walk though."

"Ah, but Miss Brenna is here."

Phileas nodded and sighed. "Show her in, then."

Passepartout nodded and left. Phileas sank into his chair, holding his drink tightly in both hands.

"You'll break the glass if you keep squeezing it like that." Blayne announced from the door-way. "Besides, as a proper British gentleman, should you really be drinking your brandy out of a water-glass? Isn't there some special kind of glass just for brandy?"

Phileas stared impassively up at her. "There is, but I need more than a snifter can comfortably hold."

"I always find," Blayne said, walking into the sitting-room and pouring herself a drink, "that the times when I really _need_ a drink are not the times when I should be having one."

"If there is some twisted wisdom in that, Blayne, I am far too tired to work it out."

She shrugged. "Don't suppose I could interest you in a game of cards?"

Phileas raised an eyebrow. "This wouldn't be for stakes, would it?"

"I'm dead broke at present, Fogg. So unless you care to play for something other than cash, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Something _other_ than money?" Phileas stared curiously at her. The more brandy he drank, the more she looked like Rebecca. He took another sip. "What did you have in mind, precisely?" 

"Where I come from, we have a game called Truth or Dare. Never could abide the Dare bit myself, always such dreadfully childish stuff. 'I dare you to kiss Peggy-Sue O'Reilly' and the like. Still, the truth part has always fascinated me..."

"Truth?" Phileas scoffed. "Purely subjective."

"Not once the game starts." Blayne smiled. "It becomes a point of honor to speak the truth, the whole truth, nothing but, and et cetera."

"What could I possibly have to say that would be of interest to you?"

She shrugged. "There's very little that I don't know about you, actually. Most of it's already in your dossier, which I've become most thoroughly acquainted with. You simply seemed rather more interested in playing for stakes. Me, I prefer playing to win. But whatever floats your boat."

"I beg your pardon?" Phileas stared at her. _What a remarkable turn of phrase._

"Ignore me. I'm horridly drunk just now you see, and it's rather affecting me. Or... Effecting me..." She shrugged and picked up a deck of cards. "Did you want to?"

Phileas nodded and walked over to the card table. "Just for points tonight, I think."

"Renewable later on, perhaps?" Blayne smiled. "For a favor, maybe?"

He shook his head. "You and your favors..."

"Never mind. It's base of me to exploit you on your weakest point. We'll play for chips."

Phileas nodded and sat down. He shuffled and slid the deck across the table to Blayne to cut. She slid it back to him, uncut. He gave each of them an equal, and rather large, amount of poker chips, then began dealing.

"How are we keeping track of points, exactly?"

She shrugged. "You know I'll win, so what do you care?"

He stared across the table. It was probably true, too. She was the only person he knew who so much as came close to being able to consistently win against him. And she had this infuriating habit of not taking advantage of the fact.

"Dealer takes two." 

"Three, please. Whist is more civilized, you know." 

"You can't play whist, Blayne." Phileas pointed out, dealing out her new cards. He stared down at his hand. A lesser man would have smiled. Three aces. Phileas was not even pleased. It was a strong hand, but not unbeatable. He eyed Blayne, whose face was set in a smugly confident expression that he knew from experience probably had nothing to do with her cards.

"Can't I? Oh, that's right!" Blayne smiled and smacked her forehead. She tossed a few chips at the center of the table.

Phileas smiled grimly. "Please do not take this the wrong way, Blayne," he said, adding a few chips to those in the middle of the table, "but have you _taken_ something recently?"

"Indeed I have. I had a _nasty_ headache." She smiled at him and raised the bet by most of her remaining chips. "It's gone now." 

"I see..." Phileas looked at the chips, surprised but not showing it at the amount of the bet. Even if she was not playing for actual money, this represented most of her capital. He decided that it was time to call. Win or lose, it would tell him something about her style of play tonight.

"Two pair." She smiled and politely waited for him to reveal his cards.

He showed his aces and pulled the chips towards him. "Feeling bold tonight?" he inquired smoothly.

"Always."

"Well, at this rate, you may well be out of chips after this hand. Your deal."

She smiled and picked up the cards. She kissed the top card before shuffling. 

"That is so quaint..."

She stuck her tongue out at him and dealt. "How many, Fogg?"

"Two."

She gave him his new cards. "Dealer takes four."

He raised an eyebrow. It was a legal move, but extremely unorthodox. It made bluffing near to impossible and told him that she was likely to have a weak hand.

He stared down at his two new cards. Four tens. Very nice hand. He threw half of his chips into the center of the table. Without blinking, Blayne added most of her remaining chips to the pile. She had only one chip left to her now. Actually allowing himself to smile, Phileas saw and called, since he had no more chips. He revealed his four of a kind to Blayne, who stared impassively at them for a few moments before revealing her own cards. A four, a five, a six, a seven, and an eight, all Diamonds. Straight flush.

"Unbelievable..." Phileas muttered.

"Maybe you should try kissing the cards, too." Blayne suggested, gathering the chips. "They seem receptive tonight."

"That must be some kind of new record..." Phileas muttered, shaking his head. He smiled at her. "Lady luck was with you tonight. I guess that's over, then."

She smiled and divided the chips evenly again. "In real life, you'd win by dint of having the capital to play longer. Once more?"

He picked up the cards and began shuffling. She reached out and stayed his hand. "What?"

"Maybe we should call it a night. You do look tired."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Fogg, don't lie to me. You don't do it well enough to be effective."

He sighed. "I'm really not tired. Not... physically, anyway."

"Oh..." She covered his hands with her own. "Talk to me, Fogg."

He sighed. "Rebecca has some insane plan to use herself as bait to draw out your Mole."

She nodded slowly. "And you, of course, are thoroughly opposed to the whole endeavor?"

"Why shouldn't I be? Rebecca is not bait!"

"Of course not, but she is a good Agent, willing to do what it takes."

"She puts herself far to much on the line for that ingrate fop!" Phileas dropped the cards onto the table and rose, pacing the room. 

Blayne sighed and stared at him. "Tell me about it," she suggested.

"What is there to tell? She's likely to get herself killed, you know!" Phileas spun on her. "And for what?"

"To serve the cause of justice and democracy."

"Bugger democracy!" Phileas shouted. "I care more about Rebecca!"

"If you do not keep your voice down, you'll _wake_ Rebecca," Blayne pointed out.

Phileas lowered his voice to a whisper. "Damnit, Blayne, she is going to get herself killed for this, and then who is going to uphold these ideals of hers? Me? Verne? You?"

Blayne nodded carefully. "All of us if it comes to that, but we can continue to pray that it does not."

"You don't understand, Blayne!" Phileas hissed. "I _need_ her..." He stopped, covering his mouth with his hands, composing himself. "There, I've said it. She is my reason for living, and when I think of life without her..." He shook his head abruptly and slammed the flat of his hand against the table. 

"Feeling better?"

"No." Phileas sighed and stared at her. "Can you possibly understand what it is to love a person so much that you can not imagine life without her? Can you imagine a world without sunshine or laughter or love? No dreams, no magic, not even a smile ever again, because of one absence? And then there are the memories, Blayne, because the dead are _never_ content to rest when they can come back and haunt the living..."

"I know all of these things, Phileas." Blayne muttered softly, taking his arm. _Two breaches of etiquette for the price of one._

He stared at her. "I guess you would..."

"And it is exactly as you imagine it. Every happy feeling is gone, replaced by a bad one. But it won't happen to you because Rebecca cares too much for you to get herself killed."

"It's not a chance I want to take, Blayne."

"The choice is not yours, though."

"There are days when I want to handcuff her to a chair in the drawing-room at Shillingsworth Magna and never let her go out on one of those awful missions again."

"And deprive the rest of the world of her presence?"

"I don't _care_ about the rest of the world! Her life means more to me than my own, more than anything..."

"And you have to let her _live_ it, Phileas. You lock a rare bird like Rebecca away in a cage somewhere and it languishes and dies, and you've brought about what you feared the most. She's too special, too different for that, and you know it."

"She's not like other women, and there are days when I hate her for that," Phileas admitted. "And at the same time, if she _were_ like other women, I probably wouldn't care one whit for her." He sighed. "What is wrong with me, Blayne?"

"Nothing at all." She took his hands gently. "I can not allay every fear you have for her safety, but I can promise you that I will protect her personally on this one."

Phileas sighed. "Thank you."

"Now go get some sleep, okay?"

He nodded and left. Blayne finished what remained of his brandy before showing herself out.


	5. Chapter 5

****

Chapter 5

"I wish you would reconsider this." Phileas repeated gently as he handed Rebecca her hat.

"Phileas," Rebecca sighed and turned to face him. "I will be perfectly safe. I will have Blayne backing me up every step of the way. And..." She tapped her corset, producing a metallic sound. "See? I will be perfectly fine."

"You had better be," Phileas informed her gently. Impulsively, he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead.

Rebecca stared at him for a moment, surprised. "Have a lovely day, Phileas."

"And you."

Rebecca allowed him to help her into the waiting carriage, but spent the entire ride pondering that kiss. It had been such an uncharacteristic thing for Phileas to do. He must be more worried than he was letting on.

*****

"Damnit, Chatsworth!" Blayne shouted at him in his office. Her voice was likely carrying to the surrounding halls and offices, but this only prompted her to raise her voice even more. "I have given you every chance to cooperate! If you and yours are not more forthcoming, I shall be forced to take extreme measures to find your Mole! And when I do, _no one_ will be safe!"

"Kindly lower your voice!" Sir Jonathan hissed. "And recall who it is you are talking to!"

"I know exactly who I'm talking to! An arrogant, ignorant swine who protects his own interests even when it costs human lives for him to do so!"

"Get out!" Sir Jonathan bellowed, pointing towards the door. "_Out_!"

Blayne swept out of the room and nearly knocked Rebecca down in her haste to depart. "Agent Fogg."

"Agent Blayne," Rebecca replied. "We need to talk. In private."

"Why not here?" Blayne gestured to indicate the foyer in which they stood, which was becoming quite crowded.

"You do not want other people to hear what I have to say to you," Rebecca informed her flatly.

"Let's have it, Fogg!"

Rebecca drew herself up, scowling. "As you wish, then. Agent Blayne, I tire of this witch-hunt of yours. I don't think that this Mole of yours works for the British Secret Service at all. In fact, if he does exist, I would be willing to bet that he works for _you_!"

Blayne backhanded Rebecca, hard enough to draw blood. "How dare you!" she shouted. "You listen to me, Rebecca Fogg!" she snapped, not bothering to much lower her voice. "If I discover that you have in any way aided or concealed this traitor, or that you have lied to me or impeded my investigation in any way, you will find yourself out of a job and in a cell somewhere! Have I made myself clear?"

"Get out of this building!" Sir Jonathan shouted, entering the foyer. "How dare you threaten one of my Agents in this abominable manner!"

"I dare very easily!" Blayne replied. She pointed at Rebecca, then at Sir Jonathan, and finally back at Rebecca. "You'll pay for this!" she announced, then stalked off.

"Oh dear," Rebecca sighed, holding her hand over her bloody nose. "Have you a handkerchief, Sir Jonathan?"

"Of course. Here you are, dear." Sir Jonathan sighed and stared after Blayne. "Unbelievable..."

"I know." Rebecca looked up at him. "Sir Jonathan, I do believe that she has gone quite mad."

He nodded. "I was reaching the same conclusions, Rebecca."

"Honestly, sir, I'm not entirely sure I feel safe working with her any more. I'd like to request that you assign me to a different matter."

"Of course. I consider this matter closed anyway. There is a lead in Manchester that I need someone to follow up. Might be a bit of a rest for you..."

"Isn't that a two-man job, sir?" Rebecca inquired casually.

Sir Jonathan stared then nodded. "Indeed it is, my dear." He looked around the foyer. A number of Agents were milling about, eager to see what resolution there would be to Rebecca's scene with Blayne. "Do I have a volunteer?"

"Sir!" Agent Granger, a young man who had recently lost his partner to bad intelligence that could only be attributed to the Mole, stepped forward. "I'm eager to get back to work, sir. To take my mind off of things, you see..."

As Sir Jonathan agreed to this, Rebecca stared for a moment. Granger was a sweet young man, but certainly no Mole. It suddenly occurred to Rebecca that he had always had a bit of a crush on her, the probable reason for his quickness to volunteer. She followed them to his office, disappointed by the turn things had taken. Such a scene might have worked once, but would certainly not work twice. They would have to find a new way to uncover the traitor. _After_ Manchester, as it turned out, since Sir Jonathan wanted them to leave immediately. She was so preoccupied on the train that she did not even notice the four people seated several rows back, Talking quietly among themselves. And even if she had noticed them, she would not have recognized them. Blayne had always had a way with disguises.

"Are you well, Miss Fogg?" Granger inquired softly. "You seem..."

"I'm a bit distracted, I'm afraid. You see, I'd always considered Agent Blayne a close personal friend. I'm afraid that this morning's nastiness was a bit of a shock."

"I'd say that she's obviously quite mad. Can't imagine what the Americans were thinking to hire such a woman..." He shook his head. "Care for a game of cards?"

"Please." Rebecca nodded gratefully. 

The two played until the train reached the station. Granger talked incessantly about his family, his home, his younger siblings, a woman he had once been engaged to, and what a lovely color the sky was. Rebecca found herself thoroughly bored and disgusted, but hid it well. Still, she could not help but heave a relieved sigh as the train pulled into the station.

"Our contact is in a warehouse about five minutes walk from here," Granger informed her as they disembarked. He quickly found a carriage and helped her in.

"Damn, I've lost them," Jules muttered in disgust, looking around the crowd.

"There!" Blayne pointed to the carriage as it rolled off. "Come on..."

*****

"You sure this is the place?" Rebecca asked skeptically, eyeing the abandoned warehouse uncertainly.

"Well, it would hardly do to have up a large placard with 'secret meeting place' written across the front." 

Rebecca shrugged and followed him inside. Her mind still on the failure of her plan, she hardly noticed where she was going as Granger led her through twisting corridors between piles of boxes. 

She stopped suddenly. "This place seems awfully full for an abandoned warehouse, Granger."

"Perhaps that's because it's a trap, Rebecca." Granger said, smiling at her.

Rebecca shook her head. "Not even slightly amusing, Granger."

Granger pulled out his gun and casually shot her. "But still quite true."

Rebecca stared down at herself and was horrified to discover that he had shot high. She was bleeding from a wound just under her right shoulder-blade. She leaned against a nearby box and stared at him, shocked.

"It was you?" she gasped. As she licked her lips nervously, she tasted blood.

"So sorry, Rebecca, really." Granger approached as she slumped to the ground. "I _wanted_ to spare you, you know, but you just got too close..." He shrugged. "What's a spy to do?"

"Traitor..." Rebecca spat, crawling away from him. She collapsed after only a few feet.

"Oh, you wound me to the quick, dear lady!" Granger laughed and bent over her, resting his gun against the back of her neck as she tried to pull herself up again. "I wonder if there's any way I can blame Agent Blayne for this?"

"It's doubtful," Phileas whispered in his ear. 

Granger felt the barrel of a pistol against the back of his neck and dropped his own gun. "I'm not armed."

"Too bad," Phileas said, pulling the trigger. "Over here!" he shouted. "Hurry!"

Jules arrived first, followed closely by Blayne and Passepartout. 

"Is he dead, Fogg?" Blayne asked, crouching next to Rebecca.

Phileas checked. "Yes."

"Good." Blayne rolled Rebecca over. "She's still alive. Help me, Jules. Jean! Go as quickly as you can and fetch a doctor." As he ran off, she shouted, "Or a vet if you can't find a proper surgeon!"

As Blayne and Jules worked to staunch the blood flow, Phileas slid to the ground, helpless to act. This was, undeniably, his own fault. Looking back, Granger had committed a hundred actions that could have been construed as sinister, but at the time had seemed innocent. He should have suspected him! And allowing Rebecca to use herself as bait was unthinkable! Why had he done it? Because she had soothed and comforted and promised that everything would be fine, and he had chosen to believe her. Knowing it was a lie, he had chosen to believe her... 

He became suddenly aware of an odd weight in his hand. He stared down and was dully surprised to see that he was still holding his gun. He picked it up and examined it as though in a dream. It would be so easy, and he would never have to worry about losing anyone ever again. He stared thoughtfully down the barrel.

*****

Phileas, Jules, Passepartout, and Blayne sat anxiously in Phileas's sitting-room, waiting. Phileas jumped a foot as the door opened. All looked up hopefully, but it was not the doctor. It was Agent Rizzo, his long hair still in two braids and a tie-dyed T-shirt on under his jacket. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt..." he muttered, and it was the first time any of them had ever heard him sounding serious. "I heard..." He walked over to Phileas and extended his hand. "I'm sorry, man."

Phileas shook his hand and nodded. "We're waiting for the surgeon to finish up with her now. You're welcomed to join us."

"Thanks, man," Rizzo said softly. He walked over to Blayne and sat down on the floor next to her chair. He squeezed one of her hands.

"How was Woodstock?" she murmured sadly.

"Wild. You'd have had fun..." Rizzo sighed, not really wanting to speak.

She sighed and stared down at her lap. "I can't believe this, Riz..."

"Neither can I. I'm so sorry, hon..."

Jules jumped up out of his chair. "Why is everyone acting so depressed?" he demanded. "This is _Rebecca_! She's strong. She's going to be okay..."

"Sure she is, Jules." Blayne agreed with a sigh. "She was strong enough to move back to London, she _must_ be strong enough to recover, right?"

"Right," the surgeon concurred, entering the sitting-room. "She has lost a lot of blood, but given time she will make a full recovery. Which of you did the stitches?"

Blayne looked up. "I did."

He looked surprised. "You did a fine job, ma'am."

Phileas rose slowly. "But she is going to..."

"She will be just fine, sir," the surgeon assured him gently. "Although she should avoid strenuous activity for several months."

"She'll go mad!" Phileas protested.

"You'll need to keep a firm hand of her, then." The surgeon turned to leave.

Phileas snorted, but quickly recovered. "Can I go up and see her?"

"Well, she should rest, but as long as you don't stay long. The rest of you will have to wait until tomorrow."

"No problem," Blayne assured him as he left.

Jules rose as Phileas left and poured two drinks. He handed one to Passepartout. "Do either of you want one?"

"No." Blayne rose. "We should really be going now..."

The two left. Once they were on the street, Rizzo said, "Oh! Hey! I almost forgot once I heard the news..."

"What is it, Riz?" Blayne asked.

"I got you something on my vacation." He reached into an inner pocket and handed her an envelope.

"If it's a gift certificate, Riz..." she began.

He laughed. "Open it. You'll _love_ it, I promise."

She tore open the envelope and examined the slip of paper within. Two short messages were scrawled in two different hands. "Have fun saving the world" the first one read. The second said "Keep fighting the good fight". She frowned in confusion until she stared down at the signatures underneath the notes. "Paul Simon" and "Art Garfunkel".

"Oh my gods, Riz!" She stopped and turned to face him. "But... _how_? They weren't even at Woodstock, and the dates..."

"Well, I had three weeks, right? Turns out Woodstock was only a couple of days, so I took a detour in the seventies before I came back. They said they were sorry you missed the concert..."

Blayne laughed and hugged him. Ignoring rude stares from passers-by who obviously found this behavior, and Rizzo's appearance, shocking, they skipped down the street loudly singing 'Cecilia'.

*****

Phileas tapped lightly on Rebecca's door before letting himself in. "How are you feeling?"

"Glad you arrived when you did." Rebecca smiled at him and extended her hand. "How are you?"

He squeezed her hand gently. "I am not the one who was shot, Rebecca..."

She smiled. "I know I'm not supposed to have visitors for long, but would you mind sitting with me for a while?"

"Of course." He pulled a chair next to her bed and took her hand in his. 

She sighed softly. "I'm afraid I've absolutely nothing to talk about..."

"That's okay. It's okay," he murmured, running his fingers over hers. "I'm just happy to be able to sit here in uncomfortable silence with you..."

Rebecca laughed, which triggered a coughing spasm. "Oh, dear," she reached for her glass of water.

Phileas picked it up and gently held it for her, holding her up enough to take a drink. "Enough?" he asked.

"Yes." She nodded. "Thank you."

"No more laughing, Rebecca," Phileas suggested softly. "At least not today."

She put on a demure face. "I'll be good."

"I seriously doubt it, Rebecca, but you should try."

She smiled and nodded. "Promise."

"There's a good girl." 

Phileas settled himself in the chair again and the two sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, hand entwined. There was hardly any real need to speak, a fact for which Phileas was grateful. Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours sleep came to Rebecca. Phileas rose and kissed her gently as she slept. He turned to leave, but realized that he was not ready to face the others yet. He buried his head in his hands and silently wept.

****

The End


End file.
